


Falling Up

by stereomer



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	Falling Up

**June 18: Columbus, OH**  
  
  
What happens is, Bob pushes him playfully, but 'playfully' for Bob is 'seriously' for most everyone else and so Frank, arms flailing, accidentally dumps an entire bottle of iced Gatorade Blue Lightning right onto Patrick Stump's crotch.   
  
Patrick yells, “Whoa!” before shoving his chair backward and standing up, but the damage has been done. His crotch is blue. And wet. Frank finds himself absurdly thinking of a Slip 'n Slide.  
  
“Holy shit,” he gapes, still uselessly holding on to the almost empty drink. Meanwhile, Bob has fled. Frank makes a mental note to kill him later. “Patrick! Shit! I'm so sorry.” But then at the same time, he's trying not to laugh at the inane jokes that cross his mind - blue balls, ice prick, Smurf dick. Patrick is looking down in dismay. Frank realizes how valuable clean clothes are on the shitshow that is the Warped Tour, and now he really does feel bad.  
  
“Oh god, yeah. Napkins.” He looks around the area, where several picnic tables and almost half of the bands and crew are scarfing down a midday lunch under the shelter of the typical white tent cover. There are no napkins in sight. He thinks that maybe this would explain some of the suspicious hygiene that's already plaguing the tour in its first city. “Napkins,” he repeats, and keeps looking around because it's getting kind of awkward. He hasn't seen Patrick in almost a year and this is probably the worst reunion opener ever.  
  
“Don't worry about it,” Patrick finally says. “It's just - cold. I was in shock. Couldn't talk. Seriously, don't worry about it.” He's just finishing his sentence when Pete shows up behind him and hooks a chin over his shoulder.   
  
“Hey, Frank. Yo,” Pete digs his chin in a little, then straightens up and maneuvers to Patrick's side to shove a plate into his hands. “You wanted chicken, right?” He catches sight of Patrick's pants. “Whoa. Hello. Someone's excited for the tour.”  
  
Patrick clenches his teeth. Frank can't stop from cracking a smile; he tries to cover it up by loudly offering, “No dude, really, I will hand wash those for you. Or, you could become my ally and we could both kill Bob.”  
  
“Or you could become my ally and we could both kill  _this_  guy,” Patrick says, jerking his head to gesture at Pete, who's still gazing at Patrick's crotch and laughing to himself. The corner of Patrick's mouth twitches, and Frank finally lets himself laugh. It breaks whatever tension there was, and yeah,  _now_  it's feeling like a summer tour, where they forgo clean clothes and place bets on who's going to get arrested or wake up in their own bodily fluids. It takes a certain sense of denial and unquestioning acceptance to survive it all.  
  
“Good to see you again, man,” Patrick says as they hug.   
  
Frank says, “You too. That's why I gave you the extra-special greeting.” He taps the base of the bottle against Patrick's back. In return, Patrick holds on longer and tighter than necessary before pulling back with a grin, having effectively transferred some of the damage onto Frank's pants.  
  
Subtle and sly. He'd forgotten how much he actually liked Patrick.  
  
Pete calls Patrick Bobby Drake for the rest of the day. Frank tells the story to Gerard, who immediately rips a page out of his sketchbook and labels it “dumb shit that frank has done, summer/2005”. Ray sees it taped to the wall next to the microwave; he makes one titled “gear that frank has destroyed, summer/2005”.   
  
“Fuck you both,” Frank says. He makes his way to the bunks, throws open Bob's curtain, and chucks the empty bottle at his face before running away and almost killing himself on Gerard's colored pencils that are strewn all over the floor. Gerard takes it upon himself to fill in the first of the “dumb shit” list:   
  
\- gave p. stump blue balls.  
\- threw bottle at bob's face. maybe has deathwish?  
  
  
 **June 21: St. Louis, MO**  
  
  
Patrick yells into the mic and hopes that the ensuing sound is at least two whole steps within range of the note he was aiming for. The monitors have been acting shady all day and he hasn't been able to hear himself for half their set. The biggest thing on his mind, though, is the heat. He plays the guitar and thinks about how hot it is. He sings his heart out while looking out into the crowd and thinks about how hot it is. Pete sniffs at his neck for a whole verse; Patrick just thinks about how fucking  _hot_  it is. Body temperature is one of those things he forgets about until it becomes unbearably hot or cold, at which point he can't stop marveling at just how terrible it really is. The misery always feels new, each and every time.  
  
As Joe palm-mutes the beginning chords to 'Sugar', Patrick turns around to face Andy as he crashes in with the drums. They're halfway through the intro when he spots Frank standing offstage, arms crossed over his chest and obscuring some logo that's backward and not fully printed because he's wearing his shirt inside-out. Frank notices him looking and smiles widely. It catches Patrick off guard, and he barely has time to smile back before turning around to sing. His teeth hit the mic in the rush; he goes through the entire first verse with a throbbing incisor. It's their last song, so whatever, but shit, he had been so hopeful to get through this summer unnoticed and without reviving whatever Thing he had for Frank last year.   
  
Then Frank had to go and dump a bunch of energy drink on Patrick’s lap and smile like  _that_.  
  
Afterwards, Pete hands off his bass to his tech and practically skips after Mikey Way when he ambles by, “for like, the fifth time,” Patrick hears someone on the crew mumble. Pete and Mikey are smiling at each other - it's like a glimpse of the future. Patrick almost winces as he thinks about it. It definitely isn't the smartest or the safest idea ever, but Pete sometimes just chooses to do the dumb thing while fully aware that he's choosing to do the dumb thing. Like lighting a firecracker and then holding your shoe over it, just to see what would happen.   
  
“Uh oh,” Andy says from behind him as he also surveys the scene. Joe just snickers and says something about the number of My Chem references in Pete's blogs probably going way up in the next three months.  
  
But then again, Patrick thinks he has his own problems to worry about when Frank emerges from the stage and jumps in front of him. “Good show,” he grins. He punches Patrick's shoulder with one hand and catches his stumble with the other. Patrick can feel an inexplicable coolness seeping through his t-shirt sleeves from Frank's palms.   
  
“God, that feels awesome,” he groans involuntarily. Frank somehow seems to catch on to what he's talking about and places both hands over Patrick's jaw, pushing his fingers against the curve of his neck and right up against his pulse points. It brings him closer to Patrick; when he speaks again, it's lower in volume but Patrick can still hear him just fine.   
  
“I've been going around to every drink stand and sticking my hands in the iceboxes,” Frank confesses with a mischievous grin.  
  
“Dude. You're gross. No sense for other people's property, I say. It's horrifying.” But Patrick can't stop himself from leaning into Frank's touch. Christ, it's fucking hot. He says as much out loud.   
  
“Not complaining about property now, are you?”   
  
When there's a loud shout of laughter from about fifty feet away, both of them look over to see Pete grinning up at Mikey while invading every inch of personal space he has. Mikey just pushes the back of his beanie flat and doesn’t move.   
  
“Oh, jesus,” Frank sighs, and it's only when he finally drops his hands back into his pockets that Patrick remembers they were on his face in the first place. “It's going to be an interesting summer.”  
  
Patrick agrees. For the same reason, totally.  
  
  
 **June 25: Houston, TX**  
  
  
The tail ends of a dream are fading away when Frank wakes up essentially naked, with only his boxers hanging off his ankle where apparently he'd been unsuccessful in kicking them off sometime during the night. He's still in the process of trying to blindly toe his other foot through the leg hole when Bob opens the curtains.  
  
Frank squints at him, still sleepy eyed and groggy.  
  
“Oh, god, come on.” Bob grimaces and immediately slides the curtains shut again. Frank yanks them open three seconds later and hops out, landing a little unsteadily. Bob's already clambering down the steps of the bus, still muttering something. Happy to start his day by inadvertently offending Bob, he makes his way to the coffee maker, pausing only to peel off one of Gerard's comics when it sticks to the bottom of his foot.  
  
“Morning,” he yawns at Ray. He tosses the comic onto the couch. “Where's everybody?”  
  
Ray, who's sitting at the dining table and reading a comic of his own, answers, “Gerard is outside doing art stuff, I think. Bob got pissed at your naked tendencies” – he says the word delicately – “and I’m here, reading up on the latest shenanigans in the comic world.”  
  
“And Mikey?” Frank asks as he sips at his coffee.  
  
Ray shrugs. He flips a page.  
  
The unspoken conclusion finally occurs to Frank. “Oh eww.”  
  
“That’s what I said,” Ray replies complacently.   
  
“I mean, I’m happy for him and everything,” Frank amends, because really, he is.  
  
“Me too,” Ray agrees.  
  
“But, dude.”  
  
“Yeah, pretty much.”  
  
They sit in amiable silence until Frank suddenly remembers the dream he had. It had involved Frank’s cold hands, Patrick, and several throw pillows, and was probably the reason why he’d woken up like he had.   
  
“What the hell?” he says out loud.   
  
“Just don’t think about it,” Ray replies, obviously assuming that they were still talking about Mikey. Frank just gulps down more coffee and doesn’t say anything to make him think otherwise.  
  
*  
  
They play with the sun beating down on them mercilessly. Frank immediately sees Patrick watching their show from the wings, almost the same spot where he’d been a few days ago. He spits in his general direction as acknowledgment, then kicks over his mic stand, chokeholds Gerard for a split second, and launches himself out into the sea of hands and screaming mouths.   
  
After the show, Patrick is waiting for him backstage. “Hey,” Frank greets, rubbing his nose with his palm. He can feel the makeup running off his face; every inch of him is covered in sweat. Even the insides of his wrists, and the valleys between his fingers.  
  
“Hey,” Patrick smiles back. His eyes almost imperceptibly flicker down to Frank's soaked-through oxford shirt - where Frank knows the dark lines of tattoos are visible underneath the layer of white - and back up just as quickly. Frank’s brain chooses this moment to recall his dream and flash particular scenes in vivid Technicolor. He grins goofily to cover. He opens his arms and steps closer as if to lean in for a hug.   
  
Patrick immediately recoils, laughing, “Shit, please don't.” He shoves Frank away with a palm to the shoulder, then wipes his hand on his jeans. Frank doesn’t know whether to be relieved or pissed off at himself.  
  
“Really though, how are you not in a full body cast?” Patrick asks as Frank dumps an entire bottle of water over his head.   
  
“You missed it, I just got taken out of one last month,” he says.  
  
  
 **June 28: Las Cruces, NM**  
  
  
Patrick says a silent hi to Matt Cortez, who’s a familiar face by now. He focuses on the stage again and watches Frank chug away on rhythm, back curved forward as he headbangs to the beat. Eyes closed, hair matted to his forehead, the flash of color on his knuckles.  
  
His stomach does a weird twisty thing that reminds him of junior high and Maggie Metcalf. He tells himself it’s all innocent. Then his dick does this weird tingly thing that reminds him of junior high and Jason Sanchez.  
  
He thinks,  _fuck, not again._  
  
  
 **June 29: Peoria, AZ – July 2: San Francisco, CA**  
  
  
And it becomes routine. Patrick watches their shows, Frank watches Fall Out Boy’s. It really isn’t a big deal; it takes up a half-hour that he’d otherwise spend shuffling around the buses or getting hassled by venue security for some stupid reason or another. He finds himself whistling their songs sometimes and humming them a lot more, since he sucks at whistling.   
  
“Dude, stop. You suck at whistling,” Gerard tells him without looking up from his laptop.   
  
Frank leans down and chews loudly in his ear. “You type like an old lady,” he says. He pokes his index finger against the table a few times in imitation and throws a couple more chips into his mouth.  
  
“Bob, tell me something about Frank so that I can give him shit about it,” Gerard calls. Bob’s voice comes from the back of the bus:  
  
“Ask him why he has to sleep naked, for fuck’s sake.”  
  
“Gah,” Gerard says. Frank flings an arm around his shoulders and presses a messy kiss to his jawline. “Ray, anything?”  
  
Ray looks over from where he has his face directly in front of the fan. “Ask him why he braves the heat to go watch Fall Out Boy play everyday,” he suggests, the fan making his voice sound all choppy and weird.  
  
“Oh-ho,” Gerard says triumphantly. “Frank Anthony, why  _do_  you brave the heat to watch Fall Out Boy play everyday?”  
  
Frank straightens up and shrugs casually. “Because Patrick watches us play everyday.” Matt has told him this – says that Patrick shows up even when Frank doesn’t catch a glimpse of him during the show.   
  
“I think he’s taking it to his advantage that all eyes are on Mikey and Pete,” Bob comments as he emerges into the kitchenette.   
  
Frank says, “Oh, bullshit,” at the same time Gerard cringes and says, “Please, no mentions of that.”  
  
“Really, they’re like a coupla eighteen year olds,” Ray declares, ignoring Gerard.   
  
Frank admits, this time he takes advantage that all eyes are on Mikey and Pete. He says, “Oh, young Michael. Gone are the days of hal – halcyon youth and virginities.”  
  
“ANYWAY,” Gerard cuts in loudly. “I think we’re all forgetting about the fact that Patrick had a huge crush on this asshole here last year.”   
  
It’s silent for awhile, as if the guys are debating on the truthfulness of this statement. Then Ray nods several times. “Oh yeaaaah. I remember now.”  
  
“What?” Frank asks in disbelief.  
  
Gerard takes it upon himself to fill in the next of the ‘dumb shit’ list:   
  
\- had no idea about p. stump’s massive crush. maybe is partially retarded?  
  
  
 **July 2: San Francisco, CA**  
  
  
“Don’t think I forgot about the fact that you had a huge crush on Frank last year,” Pete says thickly, swallowing down a spoonful of clam chowder.   
  
Patrick rolls his eyes. “I did not.”  
  
“Patrick, you’re a terrible liar,” Andy says gravely. He tears off a piece of Pete’s bread-bowl and chews on it.  
  
“Fuck you, I am not.” He feels himself blush and goddammit, why he doesn’t wear ten layers of white makeup like Gerard does?  
  
“No, really. Don’t lie to us, we’re your band! Your best friends! God.” Pete gulps down another spoonful. “Okay, I think the real problem here is this: we somehow need to push you to make the first move because obviously, Frank doesn’t have a clue. Sometimes I wonder about him.”  
  
“Oh my god.” Patrick finds that this is all he is capable of saying at this moment. “I - oh my god.”  
  
“He’s not denying it anymore,” Joe says helpfully. He darts forward and also rips a piece from Pete’s bread-bowl.   
  
“Why is it me? Why not Pete? It’s almost the same fucking situation,” Patrick wonders, exasperated.   
  
“Because everyone knows Pete’s more, uh, ‘free-spirited’ than you are,” Andy replies. He makes tiny quote signs with clam-chowder stained fingers. “It takes the fun out of it. Plus, he acts on how he feels. You just sit there and stew.”  
  
Pete points to Andy. “There you go. You know this guy has been to see every single one of My Chem’s sets?” he says, gesturing to Patrick.  
  
“Can we not talk about this? Ever?” They’re weaving in between the countless buses and Pete is talking way loud. Patrick would have expected the bands on this tour to have ruined rockstar hearing and damaged hair cells, but it wasn’t like that – people’s ears were practically tuned for eavesdropping and rumors flew around like a verbal case of the clap.   
  
Pete actually does stop, which is surprising, but this may have more to do with the fact that Mikey comes into the bus about thirty seconds after they arrive. Joe and Andy immediately leave, and then Patrick does too, though less enthusiastically because he pretty much has nowhere else to go. He feels like this is what sharing a dorm room with Pete must have been like. Except no, because he wore mesh shirts and was generally gross back then.   
  
Patrick is kind of bitter. He can’t figure out if it’s because he just got kicked out of his own bus or because he’s apparently so transparent to everyone.  
  
He keeps walking, concentrating at kicking a sizable pebble in front of him until he realizes that he’s reached a clearing in the parking lot. Then he realizes that he’s standing in the middle of a kickball game, right in the middle of second and third base.   
  
“Heads!” someone yells. That someone turns out to be Frank, who catches a fly ball and causes about half the guys to cheer loudly. Apparently that was the third out, because Frank throws the ball into the air and kicks it into the darkness. The game melts into groups of twos and threes filtering away and yelling something about a party in the south parking lot.   
  
Patrick follows in their general direction until a hand wraps around his arm and tugs him around. Frank is smiling at him, teeth bright under the streetlights.   
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey, Frank.” Patrick tries not to focus on Frank’s grip.  
  
“What are you doing out here? It’s getting late.”  
  
“Um. Our bus is otherwise occupied?” It comes out as a question. Frank laughs and finally lets go of Patrick.   
  
“God, I feel so bad for you guys. But then on the other hand, I’m kinda glad that they’re not doing whatever they do on  _our_  bus, so.”  
  
Patrick smiles faintly. “Well, whatever they do is still pure speculation. Let’s hope for the children that it is.”  
  
“Mm hmm.” Frank nods vehemently. “Right.”  
  
Patrick tugs on the brim of his hat as Frank continues: “So, hey. Listen. I heard you had some sort of weird crush on me last year.”  
  
Yeah.  
  
He was going to kill Pete.   
  
“What? No. No. I’m going to kill Pete. But, yeah. No.” He stumbles all over the map of the English language and generally sounds like a second grade drop-out.  
  
Frank is smiling amusedly. “Are you drunk?” Patrick asks, suddenly suspicious. “Or high?”  
  
“I’m a little buzzed,” Frank admits. “But that’s all. Nothing that would impair my judgment.” He says this with extra flourish, as if to prove how much of his judgment it wouldn’t impair.   
  
“Good, so you’re not going to go off and get like, eight girls pregnant, are you – ”   
  
And then Frank chooses this moment to grab Patrick's wrists, lean forward, and kiss him. Frank’s a little cold and clammy from playing kickball at night, but he’s _kissing Patrick in a fucking parking lot._  
  
Patrick kind of freaks out.  
  
  
 **July 3: Ventura, CA**  
  
  
“What the fuck was up with you today, man?” Gerard asks. “You almost killed everyone onstage.”  
  
His voice still sounds a bit nasally from the show. Frank makes a mental note to force another round of honey remedies on him. He rubs his shoulders against the back of the lawn chair and squints up into the spotless sky.   
  
“Dunno. The heat pisses me off,” he answers vaguely, but Gerard seems to accept this explanation.  
  
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Gerard sniffs, presumably from disdain for the sun and all things daylight – or all things not darkness.  
  
“I know huh, 'specially since you hid from the sun in your basement for like, years - ” Frank tucks his arms in and tries to block Gerard's fist from hitting his chest. He gets in a good thump anyway, and Frank massages his ribcage with a wince. “Owww.”  
  
Gerard looks proud. “Yeah. Don't mess with these guns.”  
  
Frank snorts and ducks his head to light a cigarette. When he looks back up, a familiar newsboy cap is bobbing in the distance, next to Pete with his stupid Johnny Bravo hair.  
  
“There goes whasshisname. Pete.” Gerard raises his soda can in acknowledgment, even though they've got their backs to Gerard and Frank. “Patrick's got a sweet voice,” he adds abruptly. He swigs, burps, and delicately places his hands over his stomach.   
  
“Yeah,” Frank agrees stupidly. His cigarette withers as he takes a furious drag and squints at Patrick. Patrick pauses and suddenly, sort of unnervingly, turns around and waves to the two of them. Which is weird, considering that after Frank kissed him last night, he’d mumbled something about something and then shuffled away as quickly as one can shuffle away. This left Frank alone in the parking lot, thoroughly kissed and thoroughly frustrated because, what the fuck. Frank didn't really have an agenda, but had he had one, that definitely would not have been on it.  
  
Gerard, startled that the subject of conversation chose to look over right there and then, holds up an uncertain hand, less a wave and more like something the Pope would do - kind of like a 'go in peace, my son' gesture.  
  
“He didn't hear us did he? Because that would be really creepy, man,” Gerard says through his fake smile, the one that stretches his mouth sideways but not up. (Mikey says it's his real smile, but Frank still doesn't believe it.)  
  
“No idea,” is all Frank says. God. He might as well just grunt his responses now, if this is where words are going to get him. He nods back to Patrick. They look at each other just long enough for it to get awkward, and then Frank glances down and coughs into his fist.  
  
Gerard looks at Patrick. He looks back at Frank. And back to Patrick. He finally says, “Hey, remember when you kicked me in the balls? Those were some good times, right?”   
  
Frank grimaces. He doesn't know if it's the years of being ostracized or the years spent in the basement – fondly referred to as The Basement Years, 1995-2001 – but Gerard's deflection skills definitely need some work.  
  
  
 **July 9: George, WA**  
  
  
“Frank’s looking for you. Again,” Joe says as he runs into the bus and goes for the fridge.   
  
Patrick doesn’t move from the couch. “Yup.”  
  
Joe straightens up and closes the fridge door. He takes a gulp of water from an Arrowhead bottle. “You should stop avoiding him,” he advises.   
  
“What?” Patrick stares, because Joe giving unsolicited advice is a new one. “I’m not avoiding him. I wave, and stuff.”   
  
“You keep a distance of twenty yards at all times. Have you not noticed him following you around everywhere since the beginning of the tour? That is, when you’re not following  _him_  around everywhere. Do you guys have a schedule all worked out or something?”  
  
Patrick’s silent for a moment. Finally, he caves. “Fuck. Did everyone really know about that – thing last year?”  
  
“What, the way you blushed every single time he looked at you? Dude. Everyone knew. Except for Frank. Pete’s right, sometimes you gotta wonder about him.”  
  
“Fantastic.” Patrick slumps further down the couch.  
  
Joe shrugs. “Not a big deal. Spotlight’s on Pete and Mikey now.”  
  
“I don’t want to be that guy,” Patrick says suddenly. “That guy who has a fucking, summer fling or whatever. Who does that? Nobody does that. I mean, nobody other than Pete. He can pull that kind of shit off, nobody gets annoyed with him because it’s what he does and it’s Pete, you know? But. I don’t know. It’s probably stupid anyway, a big joke.”  
  
Joe waits to see if he’s finished. Patrick’s basically talked in circles, so he doesn’t bother saying anything else. “Really?” Joe finally says, placing his water on the table and looking at Patrick with his head slightly tilted. “ _Really?_  That’s your excuse? That doesn’t even – I didn’t even understand it.”  
  
“Well, what would you do?” Patrick asks a little desperately.  
  
Joe thinks about it, then answers, “Personally, I think he’s the hottest little shit ever. I would have jumped him the moment he blue balled me. It sounds all poetic.”  
  
“Really, though,” he says before Patrick can tell him to fuck off. “Who the hell cares? Ask yourself that.” He screws the cap back onto the bottle and exits the bus, but not before saying, “Frank fucking Iero,” and then, with a goofy look, “Fucking Frank Iero.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Patrick calls, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth.  
  
  
 **July 12: Vancouver, BC**  
  
  
“Put mine on the table,” Frank calls when he hears footsteps. Gerard had gone out a few minutes ago to try and sweet talk some smoothies from the wide-eyed blonde chick who worked the stands. He presses ‘pause’ on the DVD player just as someone steps into the back lounge, but that someone is not Gerard.   
  
“Hi,” Patrick says after a beat.   
  
Frank reaches behind him and curls his fingers over the back of the couch. He looks at Patrick with a wary expression. “Hi.”  
  
“What’s going on?” Patrick asks lamely, coming further into the room to get a view of the TV.  
  
“Just watching Jack Bauer kill people,” Frank answers. He tries to decide whether or not he’s pissed. He sort of is.   
  
“Oh, okay. Cool.” Patrick stares at the screen. “So anyway, I’m a fucking asshole,” he tells Jack Bauer’s frozen face.  
  
Frank snorts. “What?”  
  
“No, really, I am. I just wanted to apologize for that.” Patrick still doesn’t look at him.  
  
“Wait, are you apologizing to Jack Bauer, because I didn’t know you two had a thing going on – ”  
  
“Shut up,” Patrick cuts in. He finally meets Frank’s gaze. “Shut up. I hate you. I hate everyone so much, it’s unbelievable,” he says, plopping down on the couch.   
  
Frank can’t stop from giggling a little. “Wow. Wow, yeah, you’re pretty bitter about all this.”  
  
“People have been giving me shit the entire tour,” Patrick groans. “And I make some really terrible decisions sometimes.”  
  
Frank rests his elbow against the couch and props his head up on his fist. “You know what I’m bitter about?”  
  
“That I’m an idiot?” Patrick supplies.   
  
“No, really, the self-deprecation is getting old, Stump. What I'm bitter about is that these guys had to spell everything out for me. So we’re both idiots.  
  
“Plus, you totally just abandoned me out there when I offered up my body for the taking,” Frank adds. He smiles crookedly.  
  
“I freaked out a little,” Patrick confesses. “I – yeah. It was just, weird. Out of the blue.”  
  
“I got that much.”  
  
“Mm hmm.” Patrick is silent for awhile. Frank just watches him. Abruptly, Patrick blurts, “Offered up your  _body_ , that is so not true.”  
  
“It's way true. Way true.” Frank nods. “I was so devastated, you don't even know. There were small animal sacrifices, and I almost bought a samurai sword to gut myself with. It got a little ugly.”  
  
Patrick's quiet again. He puts a hand on Frank’s knee. “So this is me, making a move now,” he says conversationally.   
  
“Oh, fuck you.” Frank knocks his arm away, grabs Patrick’s startled face between his hands, and kisses him hard.   
  
  
 **July 21: Cleveland, OH**  
  
  
“Dude.” Frank starts laughing. He hangs off the edge of Patrick’s bunk and holds up a pair of pants that are wrinkled and stiff from being on the bus floor for so long. “Did you honestly never clean these?”  
  
Patrick leans back and away from the microwave to see what Frank’s talking about. “Nah. Too much work. You want me to clean pants when I can’t even find places to take a shower?”  
  
After only a second of decision-making, Frank forgoes his shower that day. Patrick comes back from dinner to find his jeans, clean and neatly folded, sitting on top of his pillow.   
  
“You’re so domestic, it sickens me,” he says later. Frank punches him, quick and stinging, but with a grin that says he doesn’t mind.   
  
“Ow,” Patrick laughs out. “Ow, ow, now this is just domestic violence.”  
  
“Yeah, you got a good month of this shit left, kid.” Frank doles out several more punches, but they’re decidedly less violent and more of an excuse to drape himself over Patrick, hips against hips, legs between legs. Frank kisses him once, twice, three times on the mouth, each one longer than the last; he knocks off the hat by pushing up on the brim and kisses him again.


End file.
